


If I'm Not Back Again This Time Tomorrow

by MuseofWriting



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Rescue, Separations, discussion of death but none of the characters actually die, jailbreak, tags somewhat subject to change as i figure out what the hell i'm doing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 22:48:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19365364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MuseofWriting/pseuds/MuseofWriting
Summary: "What's it to be? An eternity in the deepest pit?""Something like that," Beelzebub said. Aziraphale blinked behind Crowley's glasses."Oh— really? You sure you don't want to just— dunk me in holy water, get it over with?" Beelzebub leaned forward."That would be too eazzzy."--What happens when your brilliant body-swap plan goes awry.





	If I'm Not Back Again This Time Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> I [had an idea](https://thatgirlonstage.tumblr.com/post/185366640272/the-combined-angst-and-shenanigans-potential-of) and then against all better judgement I talked myself into the idea.
> 
> Beta'd by my very dear friend [Gus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gussenstein/profile?fbclid=IwAR1q_lse_WnOYBzov0_JXMYGb-IffRYMLxp5nZB0E9--t0fVgL7J8VJUyzM)

            Heaven had changed, and it hadn’t. There had been significantly more flowing robes[1] and fewer glass windows the last time Crowley had seen it, but the brightness, the open air that seemed to ring with distant chimes of bells, the precise orderliness of the angels – that was all familiar.

            What Crowley hadn’t remembered was how _cold_ Heaven was.

            Hell was muggy. Crowley rather thought Hell had _invented_ mugginess. It was perpetually damp, coated in a layer of mold, with fungus liable to sprout out of anywhere you left unattended for too long. Crowley had been to bogs less humid and rank. The first breath of Heavenly air, almost cutting in its freshness, seemed for all of a moment to be everything clean and good and Godly, and Crowley wondered why he’d ever Fallen.

            Then again, that had always been his problem, _wondering_. There wasn’t supposed to be anything to wonder about, when your orders came from the infallible, ineffable Almighty.

            The second breath seared his lungs the way a sudden cold snap does, breathtaking in the literal sense. The third was so cold it reminded him of plummeting through space before there was atmosphere, before there was a sun or warmth or any kind of Creation at all, and for an instant Crowley clung to the arms of the chair, irrationally terrified that somehow Heaven itself had seen through their ruse and was casting him out – again. But he didn’t fall. He remained, in the echoing empty space above the firmament, surrounded on all sides by absolutely nothing at all, and felt more trapped than he ever had by the claustrophobic maze of hallways that called themselves Hell.

            And he wondered.

            He wondered about a cozy bookshop, all nooks and crannies and undiscovered corners, with the smell of hot cocoa wafting through it. He pressed his fingers into the harsh metal of the chair, feeling the ropes chafe against his wrists, and he wondered about a loving worn armchair, about cushions and carefully selected pillows leaving bursts of color all across the room. He met Gabriel’s merciless purple eyes and wondered about a pair of blue ones that had this way of going soft and gentle that Crowley would face down the apocalypse a hundred times rather than risk losing. He smiled a tight, stiff-upper-lip smile and resisted the urge to bite the nose off of Gabriel’s smug face as he squeezed his shoulder and told him, with all the sincerity of a good businessman, “ _So_ glad you could join us.”

            “You could have just sent a message,” he said. “I mean, a kidnapping in broad daylight.” It was a trap he and Aziraphale had walked into eyes wide open, of course, but it still didn’t seem particularly _angelic_ of them to snatch him from behind right off the street.

            And gag him. The bound hands weren’t a surprise, but Crowley hadn’t expected the infinitely strong white tape pulled suddenly taut over his mouth. He hadn’t been especially fond of that part.

            “Call it what it was: an extraordinary rendition,” Gabriel said.

            Crowley was positively twitching with the effort to restrain himself as Gabriel gave him that smarmy grin and promised something he hadn’t seen coming for his punishment. It was only for Aziraphale’s sake that he kept his mouth shut, breathing perfect frozen air through his nose. He watched hellfire roar upward as impassively as he could, trying to ignore the feverish gladness that Aziraphale was as clever as he was, and that as a result he wasn’t here, waiting to be consumed by flames with no one for company but a few white-winged stooges who had the audacity to call themselves the Good Guys just because they got the upstairs offices.

            “So,” Gabriel was saying. “With one act of treason, you averted the war.”

            “Well, I think the greater good—” Crowley began, not because it would make a difference, but because Aziraphale would have wanted to explain.

            “Don’t talk to me about the greater good, sunshine, I’m the Archangel fucking Gabriel.” Crowley swallowed his words. “The greater good was, we were finally going to settle things with the opposition once and for all.” He twitched again. Uriel stepped forward and pulled off his restraints. Crowley stood, carefully straightening Aziraphale’s bowtie.

            “I don’t suppose I can persuade you to reconsider?” he asked. It was a stupid question. There had been no reconsiderations for the Fallen, no trials or appeals. There had been only a pronouncement, and then a Fall, shooting stars plummeting through the Nothing that came before Creation, everything holy about them burning away, and when they hit the bottom, there was no way back up. Lucifer had looked. But it was suddenly, painfully important to ask the question anyway. “We’re meant to be the good guys, for Heaven’s sake,” he said. Aziraphale had trusted them, had put his faith in them, for _millennia_. As far as Heaven knew, he’d spent 6000 years being the poster angel for dutiful, hard work at bettering the human race. And this was how they repaid him for it. At least Hell understood they were nothing more than a loose, backstabbing alliance of necessity. Gabriel was going to send Aziraphale walking into an inferno, smiling and saying he was the one doing the right thing the whole time. Crowley wondered who on Earth had ever been convinced to write all of those lines about the mercy and justice from on high. His angel was better than every one of them, treason and all. Heaven didn’t deserve him.

            “Well, for _Heaven’s_ sake, we are meant to make examples out of traitors,” Gabriel answered. “So… into the flame.”

            Crowley ought to just step into the fire and be done. He could go home to Aziraphale, and they could get lunch at the Ritz, and enjoy an Earth with seas that weren’t boiling and rain that contained no fish at all. The chill air clung to his skin, just barely warmed by the spiraling flames, while the cold sting in his lungs burned away any hints of nostalgia he’d harbored for this place, whatever quiet yearning to return he’d felt in his lowest moments.[2] He turned to the angels and did what he thought Aziraphale might do.

            “Well… lovely knowing you all,” he said. “May we meet on a better occasion.”

            “Shut your stupid mouth, and die already,” Gabriel returned, and if Crowley had his way, Aziraphale would never hear about that. He gave him one last tight smile, and stepped into the flames. He sighed in relief at the heat washing over him. It was even worth the nearly overpowering scent of sulphur. He cracked his neck, and then, because he’d earned at least a little payback, he roared fire at the angels, sending them scrambling backward.

            “It may be worse than we thought,” Gabriel stammered, eyes as wide a dinner plates. Sandalphon looked ready to flee the room. Uriel’s composure cracked for the first time in centuries. Crowley grinned and stepped out, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off his sleeve.

            “That was refreshing,” he said brightly. “Now, if you’d like my suggestion, I think we’d all be better off pretending this didn’t happen, and letting me get back to my shop.” The angels exchanged glances. The demon who had brought the fire lurked uncomfortably, unable to find a proper corner to cower in.

            “Right,” Gabriel said. “Listen, Aziraphale, if you screw over more of our plans—”

            “We’ll be in touch,” Uriel cut him off, expression smooth once again – although her eyes betrayed her, spooked as a deer in the headlights.[3]

            “I’m sure you will,” Crowley said, smiling, and he left Heaven with a spring in his step.

 

———

 

            “Well. That was…”

            “Unexpected?” Sandalphon offered.

            “Unfortunate,” Uriel supplied. Gabriel frowned, a thunderstorm gathering in his eyes.[4] The demon had collected his hellfire and gone slinking back to Hell, leaving nothing but a faint stench of dung and mulch behind. Aziraphale, meanwhile, against all odds, had walked right out the front entrance, past a baffled row of angels and saints who were all too well-behaved to question it, but too surprised not to stare as he gave them a cheery wave and went back to Earth as if he’d merely popped up for tea.

            A sound like a church bell echoed through the room, and Gabriel’s expression cleared slightly. “Ah, Michael!” he said, smile taking back over his face as he turned. “I trust everything went well with our… associates downstairs?”

            Michael frowned, letting go of the pitcher of holy water. It vanished as soon as it left his fingers. “They sent me back up,” he said sullenly, straightening his shirt. “Said they had changed their minds. Made other plans.” His gaze locked onto Gabriel. “Was the Principality extinguished?” Gabriel’s face grew tight. Sandalphon tried to make himself inconspicuous.

            “Not exactly,” Gabriel said. “We may need to talk contingencies.”

 

———

 

            A man lounged on a park bench in a London garden. His sprawling casual posture seemed at odds with the fastidiousness of his appearance, and the clothes nearing two hundred years too late to be fashionable. He basked in the late summer warmth, the suggestion of a self-satisfied smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. Occasionally he whistled, somewhat tunelessly, a soft sound that would resolve into something suspiciously resembling Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy if he went on long enough. As the sun crept higher in the sky, however, the whistling faded and stopped. He began to glance about the park, at first with curiosity, then with an affected casualness, and finally, he gave up the pretense, and started looking about in earnest. He shifted restlessly to peer over his shoulder, scanning the path, squinting in the bright morning light as he turned searchingly in the other direction. Lunchtime came and went, and the man did not leave. He stopped lounging, pulling in on himself until he sat upright and tense, his eyes darting to each figure he spotted before sliding off them in disappointment. Couples meandered by, people went past with strollers and dogs. Tourists snapped selfies. People in suits cut through the park on their way home after work. None of them spared more than a glance at the man. As the evening drew on, his anxious looking about stilled, fading into a painful alertness that stretched every inch of him taut. Dusk cast shadows across the pathways, and the crowds thinned and eventually dispersed. The sun went down on the garden, and still the man sat on the bench, waiting for someone who never came.

 

[1] Crowley had been delighted when humans thought up pants, the clever things. Robes had always involved too much flapping around the legs for his taste.

[2] That is to say, whenever he discovered one of Hastur’s maggots had somehow crawled into his shirt and died there.

[3] Not that Crowley would know what an actual deer in the headlights looked like. The Bentley’s lights, like its fuel gauge, spent most of their time serving an ornamental purpose rather than a practical one.

[4] Literally.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading -- I remain supremely unconfident that I can do this fic justice but by God, Satan, and everybody in between I'm gonna try. Comments are my lifeblood.


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